In Which a Fear is Dissipated
by Azaisya
Summary: A thunderstorm rages around Beacon, triggering not just nightmares but old memories. Unestablished OzpinxGlynda (while they're at school), oneshot.


**Hello. I am back with another RWBY fic set in the same world as my other oneshot. I have some others planned, but we'll see how it goes. This one didn't quite turn out how I wanted it to. . . . I'm not really sure about posting it, and I'm not quite sure if they're IC. . . . Tell me what you think, please, and tell me if you find any mistakes! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. Rooster Teeth does.**

* * *

Water splashed into his eyes, and the surface beneath his feet rocked nauseatingly back and forth. Waves as tall as he was crashed against the sides of the boat with a _boom_, tipping it precariously. Ozpin was sent reeling, and salt leaked into his eyes, making them sting. Another boom — and suddenly everything was pitch black.

Ozpin's heartbeat was racing faster than a hummingbird's, and he was gasping for breath violently, his chest heaving up and down as his nose streamed. Sweat made his palms damp, and he groaned, reaching up to wipe his nose on his sleeve.

_It was just a dream_. He was in his dorm room with his teammates. Silently, Ozpin repeated this mantra to himself, struggling to calm his panicky breathing. Another boom broke through his methodic thoughts, and he nearly jumped out of his bed.

_A storm. _Ozpin refused to admit that he was terrified of boats — no, not of boats, of _drowning_. The knowledge that the familiar nightmare had been triggered by a storm relaxed him. Now he knew the cause of the dream.

Ozpin sighed as he fell limp. Another boom rattled the window. He opened his eyes and tried to look around. He couldn't see a thing. For a second, panic engulfed him again, but then lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the room.

Berating himself, Ozpin sat up. _Just a storm_. There were no lights on in the room, so it made sense that it would be dark. He fumbled at his bedside table, searching for his glasses. He wasn't going to be able to fall asleep again in this noise, so he might as well study for the test tomorrow.

A whimper broke his concentration, and he looked up, forgetting that it was pitch black. Sliding his glasses on, he slid off the bed to find the source of the noise. Bartholomew was out cold; Peter was missing. Probably warming someone else's bed. That left. . . .

Another flash of lightning briefly lit up the room, showing Ozpin exactly what he was looking for. Glynda's form was silhouetted in those short moments. Just long enough for him to see what he had to. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms around them, and her forehead on her knees. It was the very pose he assumed whenever he got depressed enough to cry in a corner.

His first instinct was to rush towards her, but, knowing her, that would probably just make her snap at him. And so, as silently as he was able to, he inched around Peter's empty bed to get to hers. His eyes were slowly adjusting, and now he could see her sitting pressed against the wall.

He was so absorbed in watching her that he didn't see the pile of books on the ground until his foot hit them. Despite the fact that the thud was soft, her head snapped up.

Ozpin froze when he saw the glitter of tears on her cheeks. Forgetting that he was trying to be quiet, he leaped the last couple feet to her bedside. "Glynda?" he whispered.

The blonde's arm darted out and her hand searched the windowsill for her glasses. While Ozpin could still see without his (more or less), she was as blind as a bat without them. Just as one of her fingers hooked around the frame, a finger of lightning broke through the inky blackness outside, followed by a crack of thunder. Her hand jerked violently and a soft yelp escaped her lips. Ignored by both of them, her glasses went flying across the room, landing against the door. She buried her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Glyn," Ozpin gasped, sliding onto the bed beside her. She raised her head again, but her green eyes were dull.

"O-Ozpin?"

He nodded. "A-are you alright?" Mentally kicking himself, he thought, _Of course she's not alright, you dunce!_

Wordlessly, the blonde shook her head. Ozpin had no idea what to do. Glynda was his teammate, his . . . friend. He could analyze her, yes, figure out what she was feeling and how she would react in a normal situation. He could guess what she was thinking, could tell if she was anxious or just mad. He could, should he want to, use her as a pawn while keeping her oblivious to it all.

He knew how to play with emotions, experiment with them, but all at a distance. When it came to comforting someone like Glynda — somebody as confident as her — though, he was helpless. And so he did something that he'd always seen mothers do with their children. He'd seen it work among siblings and lovers. And when he didn't know what to do, he tried it someone else's way. He leaned forwards and gathered her in his arms, holding her close to his chest. Any other time, he would expect to receive an angry verbal lashing. But now Glynda merely buried her face in her chest.

Her entire body was shaking, he realized dully. Ozpin didn't say anything; there was nothing he could say. He couldn't sympathize with her; thunderstorms had never rattled him. He couldn't comfort her any other way; he didn't know how.

And so he merely sat there with her in his arms. Time blurred, and all he focused on was the warrmth she let off, and the feeling of her fingers curled over his chest. He didn't remember when he'd started playing with her hair, or when they'd moved so that they were lying down instead. He didn't care that she was making his shirt wet or that the bed was too small for the both of them. All he cared about was the fact that, whenever thunder boomed overhead, she jumped and her heart would start galloping again. And each time, almost unconsciously, his grip on her tightened marginally, keeping her close to him.

"Oz?" Her voice was soft and muffled.

Instinctively, his arms tightened around her. He'd never had a sister before. Or a girlfriend. Was this what it felt like to have one? Knowing that he had to stay up for her and not caring that he would probably be exhausted tomorrow? "Yes?"

"Thank you." And that was all she said. She fell asleep not long after that, but Ozpin didn't. He stayed awake, gently stroking her hair, wondering if this was the price to pay for having friends. What scared him most was that he didn't care.

The Ozpin of so long ago was no more. The Ozpin who would smile and pretend to care while wondering if you were a pawn he could expend wasn't there anymore. In his place was an Ozpin who genuinely had friends. An Ozpin who would willingly let one cry into his shoulder and not wonder how he could get away. An Ozpin without ulterior motives.

* * *

"Well. This is interesting."

Ozpin groaned and yawned widely. To his surprise, he felt warm. When he opened his eyes, it took them a second to adjust. Because of that, there was a short lull between him waking and him figuring out why he had his glasses on and why his arm was numb. Glynda's eyes were still closed, and her blonde hair had curled underneath her, against his arm. Ozpin glared up at the green and white blob that was Bartholomew. "Go away," he said shortly, carefully extracting himself from the covers.

Bartholomew was grinning, however. "I expected something like that from Peter, not from you."

Horrified, Ozpin stared at him. "It wasn't like that!"

Glynda's voice drifted over, "What's going on?" She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Ozpin glared at Bartholomew, but then turned away and rolled his head on his shoulders. His neck felt funny. He probably hadn't had enough pillow last night.

"Do you know where my glasses are?" Glynda's voice was laced with sleep. Ozpin turned back to look at her. She was searching the windowsill with her hands (the sky outside was blue with only a couple of lazy clouds), but when she couldn't find anything she turned to Bartholomew. "Hello?"

Bartholomew shrugged and vaulted over Peter's bed to look for them. Ozpin's brow furrowed. His memories of last night were a little blurry, but he could remember the thunder and— oh. A twinge of alarm shot through him. He walked over to the door and found the lenses cracked, glass sparkling on the floor. "Do you . . . have a spare?" he asked slowly.

Glynda sighed and fell back onto her bed. "Somewhere."

Bartholomew seemed to teleport next to her. Ozpin followed, but more slowly. "How'd they get over there?"

The blonde shrugged, closing her eyes. "Ozpin?"

Slightly shyly, hoping that she wouldn't interpret last night as anything more than a gesture between friends, Ozpin replied, "What is it?"

She opened her eyes again and looked at him, wrapping her arms around her chest. "Braid my hair."

Ozpin's jaw dropped. "W-what?" He looked desperately at Bartholomew, who had three sisters and could probably braid the best, but the green-haired huntsman-in-training merely smiled.

Glynda's lips twitched, and she breathed a soft sigh. When she sat up, Bartholomew zoomed away, leaving the two of them on that side of the room. "Oz. . . ."

Ozpin obeyed, although not quite sure why he was, sitting down next to her. "I can't really braid," he admitted softly.

Glynda shrugged. "I can never do my own hair without the mirror." It was an explanation, but he found that he didn't really care once he'd run his fingers through her hair. It was surprisingly soft, with the occasional curl, and he was able to undo the tangles easily. Her hair was much longer than he'd originally thought; it went down to her waist.

"You should leave your hair down more often." The words escaped his lips before he could help it, and he found that he was very glad that she couldn't see his face from this position. His cheeks felt hot, and he quickly split her hair into three parts to distract himself. It didn't help when Bartholomew — who _could_ see his expression — shot him a wink.

Glynda's reply came after a short silence. "I don't like to," she admitted, reaching up to pull a lock out of the strand he was braiding. Right. He'd forgotten that she did that. "My opponents used to pull it when I duelled."

Ozpin didn't know what to say to that, and so he continued braiding. It wasn't long before he gave up. The only reason he even knew how to do a basic braid like this was because he used to watch the elementary school girls braid. "Can I just put it up in a bun?" he begged.

Glynda shrugged. "Just tie it up."

In the end, he wasn't able to figure out how to get her hair into a bun, so he just twisted it before securing it. By the that time, Bartholomew had found her extra glasses before running off to go find some coffee (as he always did at exactly 8:50). The next few minutes had been a frantic rush as the two remaining teammates tried to get ready in time.

As they walked to their first class, Glynda turned to Ozpin. As was normal when they were outside the dorm, her expression had taken on an all too familiar mask of impassiveness.

Ozpin didn't like the darkness in her eyes, but he didn't say anything. She would open up to him eventually, and he didn't care if she did so in five minutes or in fifty years. He trusted her to trust him . . . eventually.

Just as he knew that she trusted him to do the same.

Softly, she said, "It was storming the night my father left."

Ozpin stiffened at that, but he still didn't say anything.

"They say he was killed by Grimm." She was still refusing to meet his eyes. That was alright, though, because if she'd tried to, she would have noticed that he was looking away from her as well. "I didn't believe it for the longest time." He hated the way she said it, with such a flat tone, as if she didn't even care. "I'm not sure if you want to know what I . . . think now."

There was a moment of silence as another group of students passed them, one that seemed heavier than before.

"They never found his body."

Ozpin finally looked at her, and was relieved to find her facing forwards, her expression far away.

"I've always hated storms." Her eyes slid over to him, and, for a second, her expression softened.

Ozpin had no idea what his face looked like, but, from her expression, it was pretty funny. He smiled sheepishly at her and opened his mouth.

She pressed her finger to his lips, a fleeting, momentary touch before she pulled her hand away. There was still an old sadness in her eyes, and yet her lips were twitching, and that was good, because she didn't smile enough. "Because you have this panicked look on your face . . . don't say anything."

And words came to him. "You know that . . . next time. . . ."

"I know," she interrupted simply, shrugging. "I'm just used to not having anybody there when the storms come."

They stood like that for a long time, just staring at each other. The quiet was rare for Beacon, and the moment stretched on until she looked down at her watch. Her green eyes widened and her head snapped up.

"Ozpin! Class!"

* * *

**Review.**


End file.
